


Worn Out

by Endstorm



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: BDSM, Dildos, Exhaustion Play, M/M, Size Kink, just generally horny shit tbh, speedwriting, throatfucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26362678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Endstorm/pseuds/Endstorm
Summary: Drift has gotten sick of Ratchet working himself to the bone, so he's gone to First Aid and demanded that he take over the medbay for a weekend. That, Ratchet begrudgingly accepted. Hedidn'texpect to spend the entire weekend cuffed to a berth, forced to overload again and again as he waits for Drift to be done with his shift...
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet
Comments: 10
Kudos: 110





	Worn Out

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a fun little snippet, there's no bigger story it ties into. Drift gets back to his and Ratchet's rooms after leaving Ratchet tied to the berth with a toy in his valve to distract himself with all day...

He doesn’t hear Drift when he finally comes in - doesn’t even notice, until the white-armored mech says his name.

“Oh, _Ratchet._ ”

Ratchet groans around the gag in his throat as a pair of strong hands wrap around his hips, hauling his aft upwards, and Drift chuckles. He doesn’t have the strength for more than that - hardly has the energy to keep himself upright even with Drift supporting him. His thighs tremble with exhaustion, shoulders aching with strain where they’re bound, useless, above his helm. 

A stinging slap makes him cry out, voice garbled, and Drift croons, hand massaging the sore metal gently. “Such a good slut. You’ve gotten fluids _everywhere_ , Ratch - how many times have you overloaded for me, love?”

It’s too many - he’s lost track, which would be enough to earn a punishment on it’s own even if he could answer. Instead, he gurgles something around the gag, and Drift laughs. “Oh, right. I’m sorry, love - I had forgotten -”

His hands slip up Ratchet’s frame, teasing at seams, brushing against and underneath his armor. Then one of them - strong, _so_ strong - hooks under his throat, not squeezing, but applying just enough pressure that Ratchet can feel _every inch_ of the false spike shoved down his throat.

He lets out a whine of discomfort - it’s not the largest toy that Drift has used to gag him, but it’s long and thick enough that there’s a constant, nagging _stretch_ , just enough to remind him that it’s there, and shifting with it inside him only makes it more obvious.

“You want this out, lovely?” Drift purrs, voice comforting, coaxing… It’s a trap, but Ratchet gives a garbled, pleading noise anyway, and he laughs again. “Of course, Ratchet. I’ll take good care of you…”

He unclasps the gag, still holding Ratchet’s throat, and gives a teasing, gentle squeeze. “Primus, Ratch, you’re so pretty like this - I love the way you look with your lips all stretched…”

He grabs the toy firmly by the base, and begins to draw it out with tender, painstaking slowness. It doesn’t hurt - the toy is slick with oral lubricant - but it’s long, and Ratchet can’t help but feel every inch of it as it’s drawn out of him, until only the head remains, heavy and thick against his glossa.

Drift’s optics glitter down at him like hungry sapphires, and he thrusts the toy back in.

Ratchet doesn’t expect it - he cries out in alarm, but Drift’s hand holds him in place as the other forces the toy back down his throat, ignoring the way he squirms against it. Tears spring to Ratchet’s optics, helplessly, as he gags on the toy, but Drift doesn’t stop until it’s fully sheathed inside him again, base pressed to his lips.

He squirms again, and Drift chuckles. “Silly little thing. You’re not _in charge_ here, Ratchet - you don’t get to _ask_ for things.” He leans in, a little closer, voice dropping into a low, rumbling purr. “You might get to beg, if I feel like you’ve done well enough.”

He grabs the base of the toy again, and this time, he isn’t slow or gentle as he draws it out - it’s a firm, confident pull, and when he thrusts it back in, Ratchet chokes on it, on the sensation of his throat being fucked by the thick silicone. Drift does it again, twice more, as Ratchet struggles and moans underneath him, but on the third, he sinks the toy all the way to the hilt and lets Ratchet’s helm drop to the berth below.

He doesn’t bother reaching for the gag, though. It’s unnecessary - the toy is too deep, Ratchet too exhausted to try to work it out with only his glossa. There’s nothing he can do but lay there, helpless, fresh oral lubricant smeared across his cheeks as Drift examines his handiwork approvingly, then reaches out and wipes some of the lubricant on his own hand across Ratchet’s face.

“There we go. Much better.” He chuckles when Ratchet lets out a soft moan. “See? So much more pleasant when you’ve got a spike down your throat, beautiful. When you don’t need to say anything - just lay back, and let me ruin you.”

His hands trace down Ratchet’s body again - one of them down his back, the other along his belly. It brushes, teasingly, across his bared spike - then wraps around it, giving a firm stroke.

Exhausted as he is, Ratchet isn’t unconscious - he can’t help but buck, weakly, against the grip. 

“Good boy, Ratchet. Ride my hand - cum for me.” He strokes again, an irresistible pressure, and Ratchet lets out a whimper - he _wants_ to, but it’s too much, he can’t -

Drift doesn’t take no for an answer, though - when Ratchet can only twitch his hips weakly, he sets up a punishing rhythm, instead, his lubricant-slick hand hot and tight around his oversensitized spike. Ratchet garbles something - it might be begging, but for more or for mercy, even _he_ isn’t sure - but Drift is relentless, not giving him anywhere to hide as he brutally chases Ratchet’s overload -

Ratchet screams when it hits, his whole vision going white. His wrists jerk, helplessly, against their restraints, legs almost giving out again, but Drift doesn’t let him get away - he keeps touching, keeps teasing, even as it overwhelms Ratchet entirely -

At last, he goes limp, vents heaving to expel the excess heat. It’s - he can’t move his frame - he just wants to recharge, it’s too much, even if it means recharging with his own transfluid spattered across his chest.

Drift examines the pale pink liquid on his own hand - not much, Ratchet’s transfluid reserves have been pushed to their limits, he’s all but empty - and smears that, too, across his face, rubbing it against the smooth metal of his cheeks as if to mark him. It would be humiliating, if Ratchet had the energy to care.

“Oh, _Ratchet._ ” There’s a danger to the fondness in his voice, but Ratchet is too tired to squirm. “You’ve done so well. I’ll have to ask First Aid to kick you out of the Medbay more often.” 

Ratchet doesn’t resist as Drift begins to coax the toy from his valve. He doesn’t even twitch, but Drift catches his optic, and hums in amusement when he confirms that Ratchet is still alert, still feeling everything that’s done to his helpless frame.

“Maybe I’ll ask him to kick you out permanently - not just for a weekend.” There’s a thoughtful edge to the teasing. Ratchet is too worn to protest. The toy in his valve is big, far bigger than the one in his throat, and every ridge and whorl of it is a challenge, scraping along oversensitive nodes as it’s drawn painstakingly out of him. “Would you enjoy that, Ratchet? A peaceful retirement as my plaything - you could spend every day like this, bound, helpless to resist me as you overload, again and again? Desperately waiting here, hoping I’ll finish my shift and come back to give you a little _personal attention_ before you pass out from the pleasure?”

He can’t think - his valve is alight with mixed sensor feedback, pain and pleasure all at once, and a relentless _stretch_ that’s too much - he wants to beg, but he can’t, he wants to struggle, but he doesn’t have the strength for it. He overloads, hips convulsing uselessly, but there’s no satisfaction to it - all it does is jerk the toy another rough inch out of him, and there’s still so far to go - 

He sobs, helplessly, when Drift chuckles and begins to push the toy back in with the same agonizing slowness.

There’s - there’s nothing he can do. He’s limp, defenseless, unable to protest or struggle, and Drift is so strong, controlling his frame like it’s nothing more than an extension of the toys - just a plaything for him to tease and toy with. Drift fucks him with the dildo, one hand keeping his hips aloft, and there’s nothing Ratchet can do but lay there and feel and _take it_ -

Drift forces two more exhausted, pleasureless overloads from his frame before, at last, he lets the toy slip free. 

It’s - he’s empty, so empty and used that it _aches_. His calipers don’t even try to cycle down, and Drift’s hands slide to cup his aft, letting out a soft, appreciative hum as he spreads Ratchet’s valve lips with his thumbs and peeks inside, at what Ratchet knows must be his dimly-lit biolights and bright, abused nodes.

He barely twitches when Drift’s helm drops to lick a long, wide line across the aching mesh. 

“Beautiful,” he whispers, again, and then he’s sliding down the berth to uncuff Ratchet’s pedes, reaching up to uncuff his hands.

Ratchet lets out a delicate whimper as he’s rolled onto his side, but doesn’t protest when Drift wraps around him, a warm presence at his back, doesn’t argue when Drift wraps a hand around his spike, starting a gentle, squeezing rhythm that’s almost soothing as he finally drops into a deep and dreamless recharge.

**Author's Note:**

> Aaa that was fun :D There may be a part two to this, or maybe not, IDK... it was really more just to get all the kinky bdsm stuff out so I can go back to working on one of my current non-bdsm commissions with a clear head. Assume that this AU proceeded just like the regular LL/MTMTE one except Ratchet is a total sub and Drift's into making him work for it, IDK :D


End file.
